


Re-establishment of Might

by Self_san



Series: When the Earth Kissed the Sky [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe-Gender Changes, Always-a-girl!Q, Gen, Imagined Backstory, It's not just a man's world, Mention of Debilitating Injury, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:08:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Self_san/pseuds/Self_san
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Q is more than just powerful. She's dangerous, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Re-establishment of Might

Q is not envious of Ms. Moneypenny, with her immaculate clothing, smooth, dark skin, and knife-point heels. Really, _really_ not.

Q remembers spending a day in heels that height, and, God, the memory is still sharp and bright, though the calluses on her heels and the sides of her feet have worn away by now. Q would rather rip a man’s throat out with her bloody _teeth_ than have to go back to color coordinating her shoes/skirt/shirt/makeup/hair. _Really_ , she would. It had been a big enough pain in the arse then, for God’s sake.

Leave Q to her jumpers, really.

Still…

It’s weird really, that, though they look nothing alike, Q looks at Moneypenny and sees something…akin. Something close to what Q used to be.

If Q was a man, she imagines that she and Moneypenny would be rather good mates. But Q isn’t. And every time she looks at Eve, she feels a pang in her chest, somewhere low and painful and startlingly deep.

They are friendly, in their own way, sharing glances and twisting lips. Rare women in their own world, with shared experiences and prejudices. But then, all women at MI6 are like that.

They have to be.

That doesn’t mean that they go on girls-night-outs or share drinks at the pub or go shopping or whatever it is women do together. (Q has, honestly, no idea outside of glam-80s’ movies.)

They don’t really talk much at all, though they have been known to share lunch, and, on occasion, after a particularly stressful op, bring each other tea, but that’s all they do.

…For all their shared sex, they operate in completely separate worlds.

But Q doesn’t mind.

*

Q is not afraid to admit that she rules her branch of MI6 with an iron fist.

She is efficient in the extreme. She doesn’t tolerate ineptitude or stupidity. Innovation and free-thinking are encouraged, but only after she’s worked with the person for a time and is secure in the knowledge that they aren’t going to blow up the UK on accident. (On _purpose_ is a completely different matter, really.) She has been termed the ‘ _White_ _Queen_ ’ of MI6, but this doesn’t come from her department, surprisingly. (Because of her frigidity or her skin color, washed out under the harsh lights, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t particularly care about nicknames.)

Her minions seem to like her well enough. None have staged a _coup_ , which is nice, because those are always shitty to deal with. The men don’t stare at her ass too-much and the other woman’s name is Nadina, and she prefers the icy touch of circuitry to the warmth of human interaction. (Thank _God_.)

Q’s desk is at the front of their operating room (the fabrication room has stations, too, but there, Q’s is just the biggest) and anyone who needs to speak with her comes forward at their own risks.

Q visits _them_. They don’t come to her unless something has been fucked and she doesn’t know about it yet.

She, admittedly, doesn’t like them to come up to her desk.

This set up works well enough, and Q doesn’t make them get her tea or bow before her awesome might and they don’t bother her with pedantic questions about…well, anything, really.

It’s a working relationship.

*

It’s a fact. Q works too hard for too long too often to look like anything but a hot mess.

Q doesn’t really care.

She doesn’t _care_ that her shirts are constantly wrinkled under her formless jumpers. She doesn’t _care_ that her slacks are creased. She doesn’t _care_ that sometimes, she doesn’t even bother to think in English. She doesn’t _care_ that her hair is wild and the bags beneath her eyes look like they’ve been _drawn on with purple marker._

She doesn’t care.

She _likes_ to work. She _likes_ to design new ways to make the weapons better and the technology smarter. She _likes_ to keep an eye on the firewalls of MI6. She likes her job.

A lot.

And anyone who has a problem with it can kiss her bloody arse, because Q has work to do and can’t be bothered to shoot them _all_.

*

Q speaks quietly because sometimes, she can’t hear herself and it makes people _look_ at her, to pay attention to what she’s saying and then she can see their faces, read their mouths.

If they think it’s because she’s a delicate woman, well. Let them think that.

*

The fact is, very few people at MI6 know what Q is capable of doing. Very, very few.

Her department has an idea, because really, how can they not after spending day after day with her, and M knows, because the woman recruited Q.

The fact is this: Q is dangerous.

Always has been, always will be.

She’s a crack shot, a brilliant coder, and a killer thinker. She’s fast on her feet and knows how to kill a man with nothing but her bare hands.

It doesn’t _matter_ that she can’t run anymore. It doesn’t _matter_ that she can only shoot with her glasses on. It doesn’t _matter_ that her scars still ache sometimes or that she’s lucky she’s not walking with a cane for the rest of her life.

These things both _matter_ , and _don’t_.

 _Do,_ because they cost Q her life, both figuratively, and, for a few minutes, literally.

 _Don’t,_ because why does it _matter_ that she can’t grapple with a man, when she can destroy economies with the press of her fingers.

*

MI6 is Q’s life. She’s worked for it, for the last…God, five years? Longer? She’s clawed her way through death and the horror that was physio and up, into a new life.

She could make a metaphor about a caterpillar to butterfly, but the truth is that it’s more like a butterfly being touched on a wing.

Grounded for life.

Still, she _more_ _than_ makes-do. (Because _making-do isn’t enough_ , not for her. She’s either there to be the best, or to go home. If she’s doing it, she’s doing it _right_ , or not at all.)

She works her way up, though she already has a leg to stand on, with her background. She designs protection after protection, develops code after code, weapon after weapon after radio. She is smart. She keeps to herself.

Then, suddenly, she’s thrust into the position of Quartermaster for the elite. _The Double-0s._

(She doesn’t think about her predecessor, the mandatory closed-casket after the clusterfuck of Silva.)

That’s, honestly, where all the trouble begins.

　


End file.
